Your smile is the moonIt brightens even the darkest of timesYour laughter is a wind chime on a windy day Loud and cheerfulYour hugs are blanketsWarm and comfortingYour voice is a soft breeze Singing me goodnight lullabies

Soon, Your smile is a blank canvasYour laughter is a small waveYour hugs are cold Your voice is a loud unbearable e song And I sing you goodbye lullabies as your breath becomes chimney smoke

We remain motionless And a portion of me knows That I am already insanely famous So come close and face itWe are infinite silence As if art were all magical islandsAnd infinite forestsHistories of violence and tornadoes Escape our lingering kisses We resist the finish linesAnd make lists of all the lullabies You've ever had sung to you In deep sleep we dream Of trips to the amazonian rain-forestsHunting for magic carpets We keep returning To the exact same pagesThat we've always started on

A broken little heart entangles his tears, that come from a person that he'll never see.Wet rain boots and ***** feet make him forget about the darkest nights. His bed and blanketsare like souvenirs from home; a house he'll never remember. Lies and "I'm sorry"s are trapped in his hair, dangling behind his ears, whispering such morbid pain among his lullabies. With every cry he's screamed for you, can you even hear him? He's afraid to sleep alone, as the TV erases nightmares oozing from his eyes, do you care at all? Lost toys and old photographs make him plead; Oh, but why? He'll never understand thelove he couldn't have, the love you wouldn't give-

I made this poem a long time ago.All feedback is welcome and appreciated!

At times I heard the songs of the giantswho opted to sing for a glass of wine!

Like Omar Khayyam would sing to the grove of vine,while singing their lullabies they wouldn’t mind, defying the bloomer stars in the moonlightsgladly treading on the black alleys of the night.Didn't they budge, didn't they bend to pick up a potion of the sea, billowing in the dark?But they opted out, just for a glass of wine!

To paint a glimpse of that gorgeous Saqi till now they shun, lending the sun a paintbrush, ‘cause "if only it was colourful enough,” yet the sunpaints the enduring shades of the blue yonder. But they turned around—just for a glass of wine!

The moon hanging low over the ocean took a pause. The earth weighed down so deep is brimful!Every sunrise paints new, loves to shine on once moreThat delved-deep earth vintage taste, cooled in age-old, now close by the hands breathe in, full of warm south. Yet they opted out—just for a glass of wine!

Even the time is speechless, ask me not but why.Still keeps an ear bent on the wall of the leaning sky. Nor those who pop out with an inside scoop are ever drunk.Nor they leak out, it’s a sea off the sea or Abe-Hayath.It ain’t that small, it is the deathless spring of elixir!

Once at a halcyon sea thee dare glance,And you'll see her smiling vivaciouslyTo render eyes of thine into a tranceBy lullabies crooned rhythmically.And if thee dare saunter by the shorelineUpon a shingly beach in a brisk breeze,Kissed by glassy waves you'll feel so fine,For in mist of joy shalt thy worries freeze;Yet if thee stroll by a fine golden dayWith heaven's eye fairly raining her light,It'll betoken joy to forever stayLike of a bird upon her maiden flight.

On feasting about a murmuring limpid sea that was a vast brilliant blue mill-pond whilst at Atlantis Hotel in Dubai by the terrace yesteryear on a golden May day, upon the back of my palm there I jotted a faint line "Whispers Of A Halcyon Sea"... Faint, for I really didn't know what to write next but since yon day, fires of my muse about the sea errupted...'Tis once on a fine sweltering day when I decided to visit the edge where waves kiss the shore...Fact that I know not how to swim, I remembered some indelible words of sheer wisdom: "TILL TO SWIM YOU ARE ABLE, SIT CLOSE TO THE TABLE...Loll" by the ancient sage, LEWIS CAROLL".... hence there by the table, that's when I knew what to write. Lest thou art a sea lover, hope thou hast enjoyed my musing about the sea. Thanks for reading. God bless ye, dear friends.

I’ll to the stars take with me the only thing I owned about thee: thy budborne name swaddled in petals’ lullabies; watch it grow on stardust where a nebula lies till it blooms into a galaxy of HUMAN paradise.

~•~.~•~.~•~.~•~.~•~.~•~.~•~.~•~ Can’t beat time, as I of flesh made be. When eventually of bark be free, then to the stars shall I take the vestiges of thee...

I believe the speaker’s heart is perfectly laid bare on the sleeve. However, I feel obliged to relate the myth of Sif’s hair since the ‘name’ of the longed for person is focal in the poem, and it is exalted with an allusion to this Nordic deity.

Sif is the beautiful wife of Thor famed for her nonesuch fair hair in Norse mythology.

One day, Loki, the trickster son of Odin, slinks in Thor’s house when he is away. He chances upon beautiful Sif sleeping with her fabled fair hair temptingly spread around...

He can’t help pulling another of his tricks and steals her hair. Long story short, Thor isn’t dim enough not to guess as to who the culprit is. Odin intervenes a possible fratricidal theocide and commissions Loki to compensate for the havoc he has wreaked on Sif’s head because, as the myth would have it, no hair will grow back on whilom ravishing Sif’s head.

Loki finds the most reputed dwarven smiths, sons of Ivald, and has them fashion Sif new golden hair fairer than her her natural hair which has gone with the wind. To the amazement of the deities of Asgard, Sif is more beautiful than ever with her new hair!

As the gods acknowledge sons of Ivald to be the best in their craft, a servant dwarf by the name of Brok objects to this in the halls of Asgard and pronounces his own brother Sindre to be the best goldsmith. Loki wagers his head that Sindre will not be able to outshine sons of Ivald. Brok is given to proving this and getting the head of a deity... And alas, he does so accordingly... He brings to gods three invaluable testaments to Sindre’s superiority. A golden boar that runs faster than all the horses, even the day, Draupnir (the dripper): a breathtakingly alluring ring which multiplies itself to eight copies every ninth night and the third, and the best testimonial gift, Mjolnir (that who smashes). As you most probably know, it is Thor’s famous hammer.

As a child,you watched me,ever careful.You held a mirror before my faceten times a night,to see if fog appeared there.You stroked my hairand sang soft songs.With your lullabies,my sleep was always long.

Now it is I checking your breathten times a night.Your pulse so shallow,it'll vanish any second.